Right to be Wrong
by summerstwilight
Summary: Lancelot is right, more often then not. They wish he wasn't. story is an expansion on the death scene at Badon Hill


Title: Right to be Wrong  
Rating: PGish  
Pairings: hints at Lancelot/Guinevere, Arthur/Guinevere  
Summary: Lancelot is right, but they wish he wasn't.  
Disclaimer: Not mine. Takes place in the Disney movieverse.

A/N: This references one of my other fics, "Fated." You don't have to _have_ read it, but it will help a lot. Constructive criticism is always welcome, comments are welcome. Enjoy.

Lancelot is right more often then not. They wish he would stop. He was right when he said that not many of them would make it. He was right when he said that it was an almost hopeless fight. He was right when he said that Arthur's Rome didn't exist. And he was right when he said he would die, in a battle of his choosing, to have his ashes cast to a strong east wind.

Guinevere does not see him. She sees only Cynric, his ax poised above her, and she feels as though she should be scared. This must be death staring her in the face, this blond Saxon with his dead eyes. She always thought that she would feel something when it was her time to die. As the ax came down, she braced herself, only to never feel that blow. She looks up to see two blades crossed above her head, a protective steel arch. Rolling away, she leaves, anxious to get away from him.

She spends only a thought on the fact that Lancelot is on the wrong side of the battlefield, that he had to cross a river of fire to reach her. She does not pretend that this was done for her. She assumes he meant to help on this side, that the other side of the fire was strewn with the bodies of dead Saxon warriors. She assumes this, yet she does not. Because she fears that he will be right. He told her he would die for her, and that Arthur would govern her. She will not let him, she shouldn't. But she is in the heart of battle, and to dwell on such things is a death sentence.

Arthur does not see him. He sees only Cerdic, holding Tristan by the head, waiting until he has caught Arthur's eye to kill him. Arthur is focused on Cerdic, and he does not notice that Lancelot is not behind him. He always had been, flinging about his twin swords with the grace of a dancer, watching his brother's back.

There is a lot that Arthur does not see about Lancelot these days. He does not see the way Lancelot looks at Guinevere, with a mix of affection and sorrow. He does not see Lancelot as he stands alone, staring into the sky, facing east, thinking of a home he barely remembers. He does not see this, but he knows. He knows that Lancelot is not the same as he always has been. He also knows that there is one reason why Lancelot turned back, and that is Arthur. Lancelot is loyal to him, always.

It is not until after Cynric has fired at Lancelot that Guinevere sees him. She watches as the dark haired knight reels back from the impact of an arrow through the heart. And she watches as he picks up one of his swords and throws it at Cynric, hitting him with a lethal force. And she watches as he falls to his knees on the blood soaked earth, muttering to himself. And that is when she runs to him, through the Saxons, the Woads, the Knights that seem to have disappeared from the battle field. She runs through them all, knocking them aside with her sword. She reaches him, but it is clear that he will not survive much longer. He looks as though he wants to say something, but he cannot.

"Lancelot." She murmurs, cradling his head. He opens his eyes and looks up at her. His gaze is full of pain and sorrow and the slow realization that his only freedom from death will come through death. He starts to speak again, managing "Ar-" before he sputters, coughing from the blood that is rising to his lips.

"Arthur?" Guinevere asks, fighting the tears that threaten to fall from her eyes. Lancelot barely moves his head, but she knows she is right. He is trying to move his arm, but only he knows it. He can feel the blood leaving his body, feel his life seeping into the ground, the ground he defended for fifteen years but never loved. He tries again, and this time, he manages to throw his arm across his torso for a moment before it falls back to his side. A poor excuse for a salute, but it will have to do. He has nothing else. He looks back up and sees her, sees the tears in her eyes and tells himself that they might be for him.

He can hear himself say "I was correct, wasn't I Lady?" but it is only in his mind. And that is what hurts him most, that he cannot even tell her that he loves her, cannot tell Arthur that he loves him. He is being taken, and he cannot stop it. Perhaps that is what fate is, that tugging that you cannot stop.

Lancelot is dead before Arthur realizes that he has fallen. When Arthur has dispatched Cerdic, he turns and sees Guinevere kneeling next to Lancelot. He runs, much as she did, through the battle, ignoring those around him, not yet having realized that there isn't much of a battle left. His focus is on the body of the knight that lies in the field. And all that is in his mind is a cry, an anguished cry that shakes him to his core.

"It was my life to be taken! Not this! Never this!"


End file.
